Pro Patria Mori
by terriku
Summary: The long night encroaches, and in the darkness, she dreams of a great golden dragon with eyes the color of Lake Rumare.
1. wakeup call

**Disclaimer**: _TES:V and related characters belong to Bethseda; spoilers abound. The title is from Horace's Odes, "d__ulce et decorum est pro patria mori_" or "how sweet and fitting it is to die for one's country".  


* * *

This is a dream she has.

She wakes up, face pressed to the grass. It is soft, beautiful, thick; it smells like sweet spring, something so unlike the tough grasses of the tundra-lands. And she is loath to lift her head, the grass is so soft, so sweet, but there is a beating in her soul. She must get up. She must stand. It is hard, the grass is so soft, so different from the stiff grass of the tundra-lands, she wishes to sleep just a little longer. But the beating does not stop, does not weaken, almost intensifies and she knows she must rise.

When she rises, the soft imprint of summer grass still blooms across her face. Green grass, blue skies, white clouds. A foreign place, she doesn't recognize it at all. A soft chuckle, and there is a flash of brown in the corner of her eyes, priest robes? But when she turns what she sees is not a priest. It is not even a man.

The dragon is there. A great golden dragon with deep blue eyes and –

The dream ends there.

Snapped back to reality, she finds she is on a wagon. Sleep has made her eyes heavy but the roughness of the wagon as it passes over the stones and dips has made her neck sore. Sitting upright, she rubs the back of her neck, blinks twice before the world comes into focus.

"Hey. You've woken up."

The man speaking to her is blond and bearded, she finds his blue and silver cuirass rather fetching. The other occupants of the wagon are a haggard man and a noble one. She knows he is noble, if not of blood then at least of demeanor, because he has this air. He had the air of a noble. Sometimes, she just knows things and it bothers her a little because she doesn't know _why_ she knows these things but. That is a matter for another time.

The haggard man clad in rags is a horsethief. He mutters prayers to the Gods when he finds out that the noble man is Ulfric Stormcloak. She is pretty sure that he'd been muttering prayers earlier too, but now the Horsethief takes to his task with much greater enthusiasm as if his Gods could save him. Turning her attention to the noble, the first thing she thinks is that his bear-pelt must be warm. She is not sure who the blond man is, but clearly he is the kindest of the three. Horsethief is much too busy begging Gods for help and it seems Ulfric does not deem her worthy to speak to. He speaks of honor, of Sovenguard and a lot of Nords, but nothing else. Blond man flashes her a kind smile, which she returns, before directing her attention to the mountains in the distance.

Those, she recognizes. Slightly. They are the mountains of her homeland, rugged and steep and covered with snow. She is not quite sure which mountains they are, but it doesn't matter. The surrounding pine forest and the dirt road, not yet frozen solid, suggests they are in the South. She lifts her head to the sky and takes a deep breath. Crisp autumn air, and the slightest stirring of the wind. Suddenly, she has the feeling that something is going to happen. Sure enough, their wagon approaches the gates of a village. Men, dressed in red and leather, open the gates, eyes wary as their wagon rolls through slowly. Horsethief starts chanting prayers faster. Ulfric stops talking, to stare at them. She thinks that some of the soldiers must be quaking in their boots, it is a heavy thing, the stare of a noble. Blond man smiles again at her, weaker this time. She turns her head forward as they proceed through the town.

The wagon comes to a halt. Ulfric steps off first, surrounded by four men. Next goes the blond man and then the horsethief and finally it is her turn to step out of the wagon. A man clad in leather and iron chainmail all with red accents is clucking his tongue. Perhaps it is because she is a girl. Perhaps it is because she is young. Perhaps it is because she is innocent. Perhaps it is all three or none of the reasons at all.

"You picked a bad time to come to the border, kinsman."

"Liesel," she offers.

He shakes his head, repeating the words under his breath. But he says nothing more and motions for her to stand to the side where the others were already lined up.

The man, Ulfric, is the first to be dragged away, two soldiers at his side, wrists tied with burly rope. They force him first to his knees, then they seize his broad shoulders, force him towards the block of wood. She suddenly understands the meaning of the groove in the block. It's a perfect fit for a head. For all their pushing and shoving, Ulfric still goes down with dignity, even as they press his head to the block, hold it there, he still maintains that air of pride. She is impressed.

A solider lifts the blade, the cold steel catching the sunlight, and for a moment time seems to stop. There is a great shout. She watches as the soldiers whirl and turn, and she looks up. Atop a tower, the only stone tower in a town of wood, sits a dragon. She stares at it, and it turns its head towards her. Her breath catches in her throat, feels _fear_ for the first time, and then a jet of flames erupts from the dragon's mouth. Acrid smoke and flames. The soldiers stop holding Ulfric down, too busy chasing after the dragon who spews fire and smoke. It doesn't even acknowledge them, simply spreads its wings and leaves.

Liesel watches the great black dragon rise, and knows her destiny has taken flight.


	2. dragonsong

Someone is shouting, the high note of panic rises into the air. The town is burning. Someone makes a break for the well, Horsethief makes a break for the gate. Liesel, like the majority in the town square, stares at the black dragon, awestruck or scared or perhaps both. It lands on the roof of a tower and breathes out a jet of bright fire. She can feel the heat, raw against her skin; something unfurls in her chest. Fear, or awe, or a mix of both or maybe neither at all.

Someone screams again, this time, at her.

"Run, you idiot!"

She cannot move, there is a thrumming in her ear, a tug in her throat. A soldier grabs her, pulls at her elbow, almost drags her through the dirt and into the mess of timbers and smoke. All around them, the town burns. People burn. The soldier drags her through the town. They pass someone pinned to the ground by a pillar of wood; face so blackened she cannot recognize him. Liesel hopes it is not Horsethief. She hopes he has made it through the gates and back to the wilds far away from here. It is then, thinking of Horsethief's escape that she notices that Ulfric is nowhere to be found.

There is a shadow of movement in the corner of her eye, and Liesel turns her head. Through the broken walls of a burning house she catches a glimpse of the blond man. He too, looks her in the eyes. The fire casts shadows across his cuirass, the silver stained with ash. He raises his hand and offers her a small gesture of recognition before walking forward. One of the supports of the house collapses sending flames shooting upwards into the sky. The soldier is at her elbow again and pulls her forward. In one hand, he holds a simple steel sword. The fires around them cast the blood in a bright red light.

Suddenly, an arrow flies between them, splitting the air. Shocked, they both raise their heads. Ahead of them, on the back of a wagon are two men in the same cuirass the blond had worn, silver and blue. The soldier hisses, points her towards the wall of a building furiously and unbinds her hands. He rushes forward, ducks behind another wagon before an archer can take out his eye.

The solider moves forward again, dodging and hiding, slowly working his way towards the archers. Liesel looks around. She has no weapons, but there is a rock on the ground and it will do. She picks it up and follows the soldier's path. When the archers aren't looking, she lobs it at one of them and hits him smack dab in the forehead. He groans before falling down with a satisfying thud. One archer down. The other barely has time to react before the soldier cuts his throat open, spilling blood down the front of the cuirass. She moved forward to catch up with the soldier who was now standing at top the wagon. The solider whipped his sword out to scatter the blood. A few stray drops hit her face, but the movement did little to clear his already red blade. Liesel looked up and climbed up onto the wagon.

"Divines, it's hot."

Liesel looked up at him as she pulls a dagger out of the archer's belt. Of course it is hot, she thinks, they are surrounded by fields and fields of dragonfire. He raises his hand to his forehead as if to wipe the sweat away, but his helmet is in the way. When the soldier shucks off his helmet, she realizes he is the same one who clucked his tongue at her.

"Liesel." She says suddenly, offering her name a second time.

The soldier shoots her a look, as if to say that he thinks she is quite insane to be introducing herself to a man who would have killed her in the middle of a burning town, freshly ravaged by a dragon. If he does feel that she is insane, he doesn't say so, only offers his name in exchange. Hadvar jumps down from the wagon, holds out his hand and offers it to her. She doesn't take it and jumps down herself, dust scattering at her feet. The pair makes their way towards the tower, cool forgiving stone, the last shelter from the fire in a town of wood.

Hadvar stops suddenly, and Liesel almost runs into his back.

"Ralof," he spits, "you damned traitor!"

Standing in front of them is the blond man in his blue-silver-cuirass. It appears they know each other, she suddenly feels as if she is invading a deeply personal encounter. Her gaze drifts left, then to the right, down to her feet, before settling over Hadvar's shoulder, so that she can see the blond's face. There is an angry red streak there, burned and blistered skin.

"We're escaping Hadvar, you're not stopping us this time."

Hadvar rushes forward, hand gripping his sword and the blond, Ralof, lifts his axe. For a moment, Liesel believes they'll take their blades to each other's heads. The great black dragon flies overhead before either can make it that far. They stare at each other for a second, blades floating in the air, before lowering their respective weapons. Ralof, shoots her a glance before running past them. Hadvar moves forward towards the door of the Keep and she follows behind.

The inside is dark. The only light in the room is from a single lantern. The soldier marches towards a chest in the corner of the large room. He leans down, opens the lid and pulls something out. Hadvar throws a set of armor at her, the same leather and red that he himself wore.

"Put it on. You can't run around in that," he says, motioning at her clothing, "and expect to get out alive. There are Stormcloaks here. And a dragon."

She is not quite sure what a Stormcloak is, had assumed it to be the noble Ulfric's name. With ease, she unbuttons her jacket. Underneath, she wore a simple linen shift. Surprised by her sudden action, Hadvar averted his gaze and tried to forget the outline of her breasts. Liesel slipped into the armor, sloppily pulling the buckles together. She tucked the stolen dagger into her belt before looking up.

Hadvar turns back, the lightest shade of red on his cheeks, and gives her an once-over. Satisfied, he nods and moves towards the wooden door. His hand rests above the hilt of his sword as he pushes open the door. Behind it are three men, all in blue and silver cuirasses. Hadvar's shoulders tense, and he raises a hand to motion for her to stop.

"We won't harm you if you don't harm us, Stormcloaks. Let's be reasonable, no need to be at each other's throats. There are bigger things out there; we just want to get out alive."

It is odd, she thinks, to offer mercy with one hand and hold a sword in the other. The Stormcloaks must think the same, because they reach for their weapons.

"For Ulfric!" One screams, as he rushes at Hadvar.

The first one falls to Hadvar's sword, the second takes a hit to the head from his shield and stumbles backwards. The third one, the third one rushes at her. Liesel dodges, rams her left shoulder into the stone wall to avoid the war axe. Her hand searches for the stolen dagger. She pulls it out and stabs blindly. The dagger finds a chink in his cuirass and sinks into the man's flesh, spilling blood across her hand. She wretches the dagger out, and makes to stab again, but Hadvar pulls the Stormcloak back by his shoulder and away from the reach of her dagger. He gives her this look that Liesel cannot decipher. And then his sword sinks into the man's chest, showers them both with his blood.

Hadvar did not strike her as unreasonable or ruthless. She still didn't understand why the men in red and brown, and the men in blue and silver fought. They were all men, Imperial or Stormcloak or anything in between. She thinks of Ralof and Hadvar and decides that though neither had kind words for the other, nor did they have hate. Anger yes, anger and pain, but not hate. Hate colored a person, dyed their soul black in a way that made it hard to wash out. It smelt of blood and the oblivion, of brimstone and desperation. If so, then she does not understand why Hadvar would stay her hand. _Perhaps, he just does not want a girl to kill_, she thinks. But then something deep within her mind stirs. _But I am not a girl_, it says.

They march forward through winding caverns filled with Stormcloaks and spiders. The dank, moist air was unsettling. She did not like being underground. She did not like being unable to see the sun. It left her feeling trapped, as if the world had shrunk in around her. At least in the Keep, dark and moldy as it was, they had been above the ground. Now, they were below it, in a mess of caverns and streams. They march forward. Hadvar tries his best to prevent her from killing for a while, but eventually he gives up. There are too many dangers for one man, one burned and injured man, to bear. They march forward, through streams and past skeletons. At one point, Hadvar bends down to wash the blood from his blade and face. It is only when Liesel is about to put her dagger into the water that she notices her own hands are caked in blood. They march forward, until suddenly, a gust of wind. Liesel turns to Hadvar and smiles broadly. She rushes forward through the crevice and at last at last, they are out.

Sweet air, the scent of winter and pine of the southern lands, rushes out to meet them. Liesel feels the sun on her hair, turns her face to the sky. Closing her eyes, she lets herself enjoy the moment, the sudden freedom and return to the land; does not notice the black dragon flying away on the horizon. Satisfied, she laughs and turns back to Hadvar.

"Where to now?"

He is smiling too, they are both glad to be out of the cave, out of the burning town. Hadvar runs a hand through his hair and stares down the road.

"My uncle, he's a blacksmith in Riverwood. He'll give us food and shelter, and I would see you back to safety."

She has half the mind to run into the hills and roll around in the grass. The voice in the depth of her mind says that she does not have any need for safety, that nothing can harm her. But her stomach aches and the promise of hot food is tempting. Plus they both have their injuries, and there is a part of her that has grown fond of Hadvar.

"To Riverwood then," she says and waits for Hadvar to lead the way.

They walk downwards on the dirt road. They wind through forests and she stops twice to run through the grass and trees to Hadvar's great displeasure. It is wonderful to be beneath the sky again, to feel grass and dirt underneath your feet. Hadvar scowls but does not berate. He too, likes the wilderness. It is not the gave and it is not Helgen, twisted with fire and blood. It also isn't Riverwood and if they want to make it to Riverwood in time they need to move, not frolic. She relents and follows him obediently. Downwards, the road slopes down and down and down. In some places it is steep, and others it is a gently slope. They don't talk much on the walk to Riverwood. They walk three hours in silence. As they reach the edge of a hill Hadvar points over the edge.

"Once we head downwards you'll be able to see Lake Ilinalta. Riverwood isn't much farther."

With a renewed strength, as she is getting awfully hungry, they make their way down the hill. Halfway down, there is a small path, a detour, to the left. She feels it again, the thrumming, stronger now than ever before. She steps onto it. Hadvar scowls.

"We're close to Riverwood, let's not get distracted again, it's almost evening."

"Just a second," she says absently, "I'll be right back."

Liesel follows the small pathway and finds herself on a stone dais between three standing stones. This is a place of great and ancient power, she feels it. It reaches out to her, stirs something deep within her. She looks back over her shoulder, Hadvar is tapping his foot. He is not as patient as she had initially thought. But then, the girl cannot really blame him. Riverwood promises a warm meal and a soft bed and more importantly, the promise of safety. Those thoughts are far from her mind though. Through the trees she can see the blue of Lake Ilinalta, and the stone calls to her. She reaches out and rests her hand on the cool stone, traces the carvings and feels something within her swell.

She stares at it for a little bit after, but Hadvar calls again. Liesel glances over her shoulder one last time before returning to the dirt road. The grizzled pines sway in the wind and -

There is something tugging at her throat, clawing. This time though, there is no fire, no burning to stop her. So she opens her mouth and lets it out. And she sings, this soft haunting song, deeper than any girl ought to be able to sing. It sends shivers down Hadvar's spine, and, unexpectedly, he thinks of the great black dragon.

* * *

Thank you anon for leaving a review. It's always nice to get feedback, and so very, very motivating. Hopefully there are less grammar mistakes in this chapter, though grammar is my weakness, so I doubt it. Something always escapes my editing! Maybe it's time to get a beta-reader.

Another introduction chapter. I'm not very fond of writing them, but they have to be done. Thank you for reading my story, hopefully I won't disappoint you guys!


	3. water

The sun shines through the window by the staircase that descends into the basement. Light stretches across her blanket, across her face, and Liesel wakes. Though she wakes, the girl does not leave her bed for a while. She has always liked the warmth of the sun. She is contented to just lie there in the warmth and enjoy the moment.

After a while, someone stirs upstairs and she hears the soft sound of footsteps, followed by the clatter of wood and iron. Alvor walks strongly, slowly, a little like a bear, so it cannot be him. Dorthe is a child, light footed and erratic, but these steps are gently and even so they cannot be Dorthe's. Hadvar is asleep in the bed next to her, so for certain, it cannot be him. _It must be Sigrid_, Liesel thinks. _She must be making breakfast. _

Hunger claws at the edges of her stomach and she pushes the blanket aside and pulls herself from the bed. Her clothing is crumpled, unchanged from the night before. She had been so tired that she had collapsed into a dreamless sleep right after dinner. Normally, she would change clothes. But Liesel has no other clothing, and though wrinkled her clothing is not dirty. It will do for now.

Sigrid is slicing a wheel of cheese when Liesel steps into the main floor of the house. In the farthest corner, she can see the large lump that is (presumably) Alvor. Dorthe is still fast asleep, tucked into her little bed by the wall. Both are deep asleep despite the noise and sun. Sigrid turns, wipes her hands on her apron.

"Early-riser, aren't we?"

The girl nods, sheepishly, "Yes. I don't need much sleep."

Sigrid laughs at that. She turns her attention to the chunk of back bacon sitting on the cutting board. She cuts several generous slices and continues to talk to Liesel.

"As you can see, these guys are all heavy-sleepers. I think half of Riverwood is still asleep. The sun is just rising. Breakfast isn't ready yet, but you can help yourself to bread and milk now and come back later if you're still hungry. There's cheese too, but I never liked cheese with my black bread."

The black bread in question is sitting in the middle of the table. As Liesel slices into the loaf, she realizes it is still warm. She cuts herself two slices of bread and pours a mug of cold milk. The cheese sits untouched and Sigrid continues slicing the bacon. She bites into the bread. Sigrid is right. Her black bread is rich with ale and honey, sweet and thick. Liesel wishes for honey or butter perhaps, to slather over the bread but there is none and she cannot bring herself to ask Sigrid for more.

She cuts another slice and finishes her milk. Thanking Sigrid, Liesel slips out the door into the town. The door swings shut slowly, allowing the morning sunlight to slip in. Sigrid raises her head, but Liesel is gone by then, and she returns to her work.

* * *

Riverwood is a quiet little town caught between the river and the mountains. In the morning, the sun cast shadows through the town. Even though the sun rises further into the sky, pockets of shadows gather beneath the trees. Pines rise by the dirt roadside and beneath, the shadows shelter what little remains of the morning dew. Liesel follows the path past Alvor's house and stops underneath one of the pines. She shucks off her clothes and walks into the river. The cool water swirled around her, and, as if returning home, she lets out a contented sigh.

Liesel moves away from the bank. The riverbed slopes downward and she walks and walks until her toes no longer touch the bottom. She takes a breath and sinks under the surface into the quiet embrace of water. The river, in the morning sun, was bright and though the surface reflected much of the light, Liesel feels a quiet contentedness spread through her akin to the warmth of the sun. It is a quiet calmness that does not exist anywhere else, not in the mountains and not by the fireplace. She surfaces. The deer on the far side of the bank looks up, but nothing else moves. She takes a deep breath and sinks under the water again. This time Liesel swims to the far bank. She comes up near the deer and it looks at her in distress before fleeing into the forest. She sighs in defeat. Gingerly, she touches her left shoulder. It is swollen and bruised from the battering she'd taken in Helgen Keep. Even the lightest touch makes her wince. Her shoulder is feverish, and Liesel sinks back into the water to ease the pain. For a few minutes, the girl floats in the river undisturbed. She can feel the swelling and pain ebbing away slowly.

Contented, she makes her way back to land. Liesel pulls her hair over her shoulder and wrings it dry. The water splatters to the ground staining the soil dark for a moment. Behind her, something drops to the ground with a loud clatter.

Liesel looks over her shoulder and standing behind her is an elf whose mouth is wide open. They stare at each for a bit. Liesel blinks and the elf starts to turn red. He points a finger at the naked girl accusatorily and starts stuttering.

"W-wh-what do you think you're doing?!"

The red is spreading. Liesel watches in fascination as Faendal's entire face goes pink and then red. It starts around his cheeks, just under his eyes and it spreads across his nose to the very tips of his pointy ears. She laughs in amusement. The elf, however, does not share in the girl's mirth.

"Put some clothing on!" Faendal manages to splutter out. Sometimes he loves the land of Skyrim and her inhabitants, but other times he questioned why he even left Valenwood in the first place. If there was anything he had learned since coming here, it was that sometimes the people could be as wild and untamed as the land. Unpredictable too, he supposed, and uncouth. Very, very uncouth.

"Does it bother you?" The girl asks, cocking her head the side. Faendal can't help but notice the motion of her neck, the slip of her shoulder the scar that stretches across her hips—

"Yes! Of course it bothers me!" He manages to sputter out, all while averting his gaze. His eyes threaten to rove upwards, or trail further downwards, neither of which is an acceptable direction for his eyes to go. "Do you just like walking around naked in the middle of town? Put some gods-damned clothing on!"

Liesel laughs, but she relents and decides perhaps it is best not to tease the wood-elf anymore, lest his face turn any redder and start melting. She retreats to the tree and picks up her clothing, slightly damp with dew. Her shirt, much to her chagrin, is stained with blood. How she had not noticed that before is slightly worrying. Frowning she pulls her underwear and pants on.

"Is this good enough?"

"If you're clothed, yes. If not, no!"

She hasn't put her shoes back on, but Liesel hates getting her boots wet. They dry off slower than anything else and wet shoes mean wet feet and if there is anything Liesel dislikes, it is wet feet. She puts her trusty boots on a stump and sits down next to them.

Faendal is hacking away at wood, busy turning it into usable logs of firewood. He manages to shoot her a discerning glare every upswing and Liesel does her best to smile and return the gesture. Finally, the Faendal decides that he has enough firewood, or enough of Liesel (she is not sure which it is, and nor does she care), and stops. He leans his axe against a stump and straightens up.

"So."

"Yes?" She replies, a smile on her face.

"What are you still doing here?"

"Watching you."

"That's a bad hobby."

"Is it? But people are so interesting."

Faendal sighs. He isn't so sure what to say in response, what can he say in response? He feels as if he is talking to a child. Some kind of infuriating child that was very experienced in driving adults up walls. There is a touch of innocence, of sincerity, yes, but the way the girl words her replies… It is infuriating to say the least, and he was a man who prided himself on his control.

"If you are bored, how about you run an errand for me?"

"Oh?" She perks up at this. "Sure, what is it?"

"Just a small errand." He said, scratching his head. It was a little odd for him to ask something of a relative stranger, but the rest of the town was determined not to get involved in the so-called 'love triangle' and let him and Sven 'work it out'. "There seems to be an odd rumor going around, and I'd like to rectify that. Just tell Camilla that –"

"Camilla?" The girl asked, tilting her head to the side again.

"Yes, she's Lucan's sister. You'll probably find her at the General Store. Anyway, could you just go and tell her that the letter Sven wrote, whatever's in it is untrue. And, uh," Faendal starts going pink in the ears again here, "tell here that… t-that I'minterestedinhumansandwouldn 'tmindoneasawife."

The last part comes out all a slur, and Faendal's face is completely tomato red by the end. If anything, Liesel is impressed. How the Bosmer goes from wood-brown to tomato-red in under five seconds is beyond her. She touches the sole of her boot experimentally, and satisfied with its dryness, she puts them on.

"I got it, don't worry!"

For some reason, despite the cheery words, and the bright smile, Faendal feels a rock of regret sink to his stomach as he watches Liesel walk away. He stares out across the river and begs Y'ffre for mercy.

* * *

The General Store, Liesel realizes, is just across the street from Alvor's house. Riverwood really is small. It doesn't matter though, she supposes, perhaps it is part of the town's charm? Liesel ponders this as she walks into the shop. Dank coolness greets her, as does the smell of stew. A woman she can only assume is Camilla stands in a corner of the room stirring a pot. A brunette man calls out to her, but Liesel ignores him. Faendal hadn't mentioned a man and she thusly, has no interest in him. She walks up to Camilla and stares her in the eyes.

"Faendal says that Sven wrote a letter and whatever is in it is untrue." She pauses. Faendal had said something else too, though she hadn't really caught it all for he had spoken too quickly. "He also said something else really fast that I couldn't catch. Something about wives."

Camilla looks a bit shocked. She's stopped stirring her stew and stares blankly at Liesel. She blinks, once, twice, thrice, and Liesel wonders if she should repeat what Faendal told her to tell Camilla. There is no need however, as Camilla snaps out of her stupor shortly.

"That Sven! He would do something like this… Yes, thank you. Please tell Faendal that I, um, understand."

Camilla is also turning pink in the face. So the reaction is not limited to Bosmer, how interesting. Amused, Liesel nods and turns to leave. She will report back to Faendal and then she will seek whatever wonders Sigrid has procured for breakfast.

"Wait! I have not seen you before, are you a friend of Faendal's?"

"Yes, I am. My name is Liesel!"

The girl holds turns back to answer Camilla's question, and Camilla sees clearly now, cast against the warm sunlight, the icy blue of her eyes. She feels another question on her tongue, but the door swings shut before Camilla can find the words. She returns to her stew and wonders, briefly, when Faendal had gained such an interesting friend.

* * *

Faendal is not by the mill when Liesel returns. He is not in the river, nor is he in the trees. She wants to search for the Bosmer, but her stomach growls. Camilla's words will not change in the time it takes her to fill her belly, so Liesel decides to postpone her search until after breakfast.

Even before she enters Alvor's house, she can smell the bacon. She can smell it and she can imagine it, thick slabs of marbled meat and good ale and black bread and goat cheese and bacon, thick and hot and crisp. Just the thought of it makes her hungrier. Liesel picks up her pace and walks into the family at breakfast. Hadvar motions for her to sit next across from him and she complies.

Sigrid slides two slabs of bacon from her great cast iron pan onto Liesel's plate. The girl helps herself to the fare, bread and jam, lots and lots of jam, for Liesel is as fond of lingonberries as she is honey. The black bread does not reappear, but Sigrid's bread is crusty and fluffy on the inside regardless. She and Hadvar and Alvor split a loaf three ways. Inbetween bites, Liesel notices that Hadvar likes to eat his bread with his bacon. In contrast, Alvor is more like herself, he smothers his bread in jam. She takes another bite of her bread.

It is Alvor who starts the conversation. He asks Hadvar vaguely about war and recent happenings. Hadvar's reply is simple: "Damn Stormcloaks."

That catches Liesel's attention. "Stormcloaks?" She asks. The term had been thrown around a bit in the chaos of Helgen, but she still isn't quite sure what exactly it embodies.

The Stormcloaks, she learns, are Nords who hate the Empire. Their leader is Ulfric Stormcloak who is both Jarl of Windhelm and, some say, the High King of Skyrim. Alvor scratches his chin when he talks about the Stormcloaks, his gaze drifts to the far corner of the wall and Liesel feels that perhaps he does not approve of the war.

After that, the conversation flows like warm mead, and Liesel listens intently while nibbling at Sigrid's offerings. Topics such as weather, business, neighbors, and winter pop up. She has the distinct feeling that Alvor is dancing around the subject of war. Dorthe stumbles to the table sometime between the weather and 'The Love Triangle' and pulls herself into the seat besides Liesel. She is not quite like her parents in appearance. Alvor has hair the color of the rich woodlands, and Sigrid has hair the color of honey amber, yet Dorthe's hair is the color of gold. Perhaps not everything is so simple, she thinks as she slices the girl some bread. The child blinks, mumbles a thanks and stares into the depths of her trencher. Liesel returns her attention to the conversation.

"What do you think?" Hadvar asks, a question clearly directed at her.

"Of the war?" She asks, bread floating midway to her mouth.

"Of the Stormcloaks."

She doesn't really have an answer for either question, so Liesel makes a noncommittal noise and places her bread in her mouth. If there is anything she has learned, it is that it is rude to talk with your mouth full. She hopes this will spare her the need to tell Hadvar what she thinks of war and the Stormcloaks. She thinks that they are all men, vice-ridden and mortal as the rest of them. She thinks the war is petty, _for there are far more important things stirring_. But that is not what Hadvar wants to hear. She is pretty sure it is not what either side wants to hear. So Liesel shoves more bread into her mouth, making sure it is never quite empty enough to talk.

He shakes his head a little, as if disappointed by Liesel's lack of response.

"I saw you fight, you would make a good soldier if you joined the Legion."

Her only comment to that is to eat more bread. After all, she does not intend to join the Legion, and that would surely disappoint Hadvar. Liesel offers a quick thanks to the Divines, Sigrid's bread is good and it makes filling her mouth continuously with it that much easier.

"Speaking of the Legion, when must you leave?" Sigrid asks without looking up.

"As soon as possible, three days maybe. I have to get back to the General."

"So soon?" Liesel can almost hear the accusations blistering under Sigrid's voice. She lowers her head, takes a forkful of bacon.

Before Hadvar can reply, Alvor settles his hand on Sigrid's shoulders. He sighs and scoots forward a bit, places himself between his wife and nephew.

"A man must do what he must do."

They say no more of the topic, and breakfast passes quickly afterwards. Sigrid fumes, but neither Alvor or Hadvar say anything more. When she leaves with Dorthe, Hadvar puts his spoon down with a heaviness Liesel does not recognize.

"It is my duty." He says.

"I know." Alvor replies.

Liesel licks the jam from the edges of her lips and the tips of her fingers. There is nothing left for her to say, and there is no room for her words. She understands, at that moment, the closeness between Hadvar and Alvor and Sigrid and Dorthe. And she understands that there is a bond between them that she cannot understand or comprehend.

* * *

If she had to estimate, it was a little past ten in the morning. Perhaps it is closer to eleven, but certainly not yet noon. Liesel sits on the stump and waits. Faendal is nowhere to be seen. She drums her fingers against the wood. Minutes pass and still, no Faendal. Perhaps he has gone elsewhere, but Riverwood is only so big. Liesel waits. Minutes pass, and she begins to grow bored.

Boredom was, and still is, a dangerous thing. Luckily for Liesel, today her boredom manifests in drowsiness and not impulses (which tended to end in _very bad ideas_). She stretches her legs out, wiggles her toes and waits fifteen more minutes. Still no sign of Faendal. The ground, on the other hand, is starting to look more and more inviting. Ten more minutes pass before Liesel decides that a nap would not hurt Faendal at all. She rolls down into the grass, basking in the sunlight and promptly falls asleep.

She dreams of the great golden dragon again. He stares at her for the longest time and Liesel stares back, unmoving. They are in the field of grass, and not a cloud floats in the blue sky. The dragon's eyes too, are blue, but of a darker shade.

"Your eyes," she blurts, still staring into the dragon's eyes, "are very blue. Almost like a deep lake."

The great golden dragon breathes out, sends the grass and her hair flying backwards. Unexpectedly, the dragon speaks. She is shocked, just a little, because she never dreams far enough to hear the dragon talk. But then, there was a little part of her that knew he would speak, just like there was a part of her that knew that the dragon was a he and not a she. It was hard to explain, even harder to rationalize. Liesel just accepts it; things are easier that way.

"Your eyes are blue too." He says with the slightest hint of amusement. "Clear, and crisp, the slightest hint of ice below the surface. Like the rivers of Skyrim."

She wonders why that sounds so familiar.

* * *

Long time no update, eh? I said I really dislike introductory chapters and I really meant it. They are very hard for me to write and I have at least four different drafts of this chapter on my harddrive all of which were scrapped for one reason or another /sobs. Just going to spit this out and move on to more interesting things now...

**Replies**:

Mad

Thank you for the compliments! Unfortunately Liesel's past won't be discussed in the foreseeable future. In this story at least. ; )

youjohan

ilu, pls play skyrim w/ me

—_uninteresting food talk below_—

Black bread is made from rye and not really made from mead and honey but hey, it sounds good right? I imagine it as a really nice bread that has a whole ton of flavor. Not overtly sweet, just the slightest hint of honey to accent the honey in mead. Soft, slight chewy and really dense. Like banana bread, only not that moist and maybe not that dense.

Rashers/bacon of the Skyrim variety I imagine as thick slabs of fatty pork either from the belly or the loin (though Sigrid is slicing up some loin bacon). In Europe bacon isn't usually smoked but I think in Skyrim fresh pork is a rarity and most of the meat is either smoked or salted. Maybe even brined...

According to my google-fu, Breakfast is big in Scandanavia and they get all sorts of nice things. Nothing staves off the cold like a hearty breakfast (and a hearty lunch, and a hearty dinner, and a hearty second breakfast—you get the idea). If you've ever been to Ikea, you probably know what lingonberry jam looks/tastes like. And if you don't then I suggest you hightail it to your nearest Ikea and pick up a jar for yourself!

re: Lingonberries. I suppose the in-game equivalent would be snowberries but it's considered poisonous to humans (!), so I'm just going to pretend that every snowberry I ever shoved down my character's throats was a lingonberry because those things are good. Even if they don't grow on bushes. Small details, right?


End file.
